


The Boy Who Existed: Book Two

by Anonymous



Series: The Boy Who Existed [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Boy-Who-Lived Neville Longbottom, Canon Rewrite, Child Abuse, Gen, Harry Potter is Not the Boy-Who-Lived, Pureblood Culture (Harry Potter), Pureblood Politics (Harry Potter), Pureblood Society (Harry Potter), Slytherin Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2020-10-27 05:34:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20755154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Harry Potter doesn't grow up in a world where other wizards know his name. At eleven, there is no giant to come and save him from his horrible relatives— there's just Harry. At twelve, there are things going on that Harry is still too young to understand, but that doesn't stop him from landing smack dab in the middle of them.





	1. The Cupboard

**Author's Note:**

> part 2: start
> 
> in case you just started reading this series (as opposed to when it was originally posted, in 2014,) the main over-arching theme is child abuse, and there is fairly explicit child abuse in the first chapter of this fic (more explicit than it was in 2014, certainly.) if that's going to fuck you up, now might be the time to stop reading this series (to be clear, i am an abuse victim and i wrote this originally as a form of escapism, so it's never written in a sexually gratifying way, there is no graphic violence or rape.)

CHAPTER ONE: THE CUPBOARD

  


As a little boy, Harry Potter had loved cars— they were fascinating to him. The way they moved, the way they sounded, where they went— Harry had been interested in it all. As he had grown up, he cared less about the mechanics and more about what a car _ represented _. For Harry, young as he had been, had desperately dreamed of running away from home. A car meant freedom— the freedom to go anywhere he wanted, to escape from his relatives and move far, far away.

At eleven, Harry no longer had any interest in them— at eleven, his uncle’s sleek sedan felt like a prison, slowly dragging him back to the life he’d tried to leave behind. He was alone in the backseat but didn’t have to look up to know that Vernon Dursley was glaring at him through the rearview mirror. He was Harry’s uncle— although Harry didn’t like to think of him that way— but he_ hated _ Harry. 

Harry, small and spindly, with a mop of messy hair and bright green eyes, was as far from Mr Dursley and his family as he possibly could be. The Dursleys were all pale and pinch-faced— Petunia, Harry’s aunt, was very tall and skinny, with a long face, while her husband and son were both portly, with ruddy red faces. But what really set Harry Potter apart from his relatives was _ magic _ — for eleven-year-old Harry was a wizard, and his relatives most definitely were _ not _. 

The Dursleys were what wizards called muggles— people who couldn’t do magic at all. Harry’s best friend, Draco Malfoy, thought that muggles were a mistake on the part of nature— an inferior version of wizards. Sitting in the back seat of Mr Dursley’s car, silently waiting for whatever horrible punishment he’d receive, Harry couldn’t help but agree. 

An ache settled into the pit of Harry’s stomach as they drove through the familiar streets of Little Whinging. They passed the public library, the one bright spot during Harry’s last summer with his relatives, and then the local park, where Dudley Dursley held court and beat up all of the other children. Harry had been the one bleeding on the wood chips on more than one occasion— nevermind that he and Dudley were cousins. 

They took a right turn, and Harry shrunk back into the seats as Privet Drive came into view. The Dursleys had him back, and there would be no escape now— Harry was headed for the cupboard under the stairs, and if they remembered to feed him, he would be _ lucky. _

Mr Dursley pulled the car into the neat driveway in front of house number four, and Harry took a very deep breath— then his uncle yanked him out of the car by the scruff of the neck, and frog-marched him into the house. 

The Dursley house hadn’t changed very much— it wasn’t as clean as it had been when Harry was there, because he was the one who had gotten on his hands and knees and scrubbed the floors until they were spotless. He was the one who weeded the gardens and washed the dishes. 

Petunia Dursley was waiting for them in the living room, her thin lips pursed together into a line.

“I suppose you think you’re _ special _ , do you?” She demanded, once her husband had closed the front door. “You’re just like your mother— a _ freak _ that’s been inflicted on us! If it weren’t for that _ headmaster _ , we would have washed our hands of you— I hope you’re _ grateful _,” she spat.

Harry shook his head— he _ wasn’t _ like his mother, he _ wasn’t _ wrong like she had been. The _ Dursleys _ were the freaks. But that was the wrong answer— Mr Dursley was still holding him by the scruff of the neck, and when Harry shook his head, he pulled him off of the floor and _ shook _ him, the way a dog might shake a rabbit. 

“If you _ aren’t _ grateful, perhaps we should throw you out on the street— how would you like _ that _, boy?” Vernon sneered.

Harry didn’t say a word— just clamped his mouth shut and refused to look at them. 

His uncle shook him again— “You still know how to _ speak _, don’t you?” He said nastily. “Or did they cut out your tongue at that school of yours?”

“You shouldn’t have taken me back,” Harry said, finally. “I’d _ rather _ be on the street than back _ here _.”

At this, Mr Dursley’s temper sprung out— he began shaking Harry so violently that he was sure he was going to be _ sick _. Between the shakes, he could barely make out what his uncle was yelling, but it sounded something like “UNGRATEFUL LITTLE BEAST— OUGHT TO HAVE BEATEN IT OUT OF YOU… SPENT ALL THESE YEARS FEEDING YOU AND THIS IS THE THANKS… YOU’LL NEVER SEE THE LIGHT OF DAY AGAIN… DUDLEY, OPEN THE CUPBOARD—”

And there was Harry’s cousin, fatter and pinker than before, gleefully opening to the little door to Harry’s childhood bedroom— the cupboard under the stairs. Mr Dursley, still shouting, _ threw _ him inside, and then came the familiar sound of the locks turning. Someone closed the little slot at the bottom, as well, and it was totally dark in the cupboard.

Harry didn’t need any light to know where he was going, though— he’d slept in the cupboard since his fourth birthday, and it wasn’t very big. He knew it like the back of his hand. His cot was a little too small for him after a year of eating properly, but he laid down anyway, and let his toes dangle over the edge. 

This was what Harry had been dreading for months— the back of his neck hurt terribly from all the shaking, and he was _ hungry. _ He’d never had to worry about that before— Harry had lived his whole life on dry toast and the occasional piece of meat or fruit. After going to school at Hogwarts, however, where he could eat just as much as he wanted, his stomach expected _ food _, and he wasn’t going to get it.

Harry curled around himself miserably as his stomach growled. He just hoped that the Dursleys wouldn’t snap his wand, or burn his books, or rip up the beautiful robes he’d gotten for a Yule present. He was sure he could survive a few weeks in the cupboard— he’d done it before, more times than he could even count, but he could never replace the things in his school trunk. Their value wasn’t in the words on the pages or the soft eagle feather of his favourite quill—it was in the memories Harry associated with them. There were the books he’d bought himself for his first birthday presents or the thick dragon-hide gloves that his best friend, Draco Malfoy, had bought him for the holidays. He’d saved all of his assignments from school— if the Dursleys burned the parchment, he’d never get them back, with the kind notes his professors had written in the margins, or the doodles Malfoy had drawn on them during classes. 

Harry desperately wanted his things around him— and he wanted a hug. 

—

The cupboard under the stairs hadn’t gotten any cleaner while Harry was away— once his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, Harry could see that there were spiders all over the ceiling (which was really just the bottom of the stairs.) This didn’t bother him as much as it probably should have— Malfoy would have never stood for it.

Malfoy would never have stood for any of the things that Harry’s relatives did to him, though— Malfoy lived in a mansion, and although he’d never seen it, Harry was sure Malfoy had two or three bedrooms all to himself. 

Still, he wished Draco was there with him— as selfish as that might have been. When he was younger, Harry had just played with Dudley’s broken toys— played make-believe with some story that would distract him. But Harry couldn’t play make-believe any longer— he knew what he was _ missing _, being locked in the cupboard. He knew he wouldn’t get to sit in the sun, or read his books, or talk and laugh with people who liked him. In the cupboard, it was just Harry— and the spiders.

For the first few hours, he tried to recite his textbooks from memory— that worked pretty well, but he got stuck halfway through his Defence Against the Dark Arts book, and after losing his rhythm, he couldn’t get it back again. Then he sat in the dark and tried to think of something to write to Malfoy once he was let out of the cupboard again.

_ ‘Dear Draco, _

_ The muggles have just let me back into the house— they keep me penned up like a dog, you see.’ _

Or,

_ ‘Dear Draco, _

_ I hope you’re having a good summer so far. Please tell me what’s happening with all the normal wizards— I’ve been busy going mad in a little closet, so I haven’t the foggiest.’ _

There was always,

_ ‘Dear Draco, _

_ Do you think you could send me some bread? It’s just that the muggles are trying to starve the magic out of me, and it’s become something of a bother.’ _

This was a terribly depressing exercise, and it didn’t distract him at all. In fact, it made the whole thing worse, because as soon as he thought about trying to explain what was happening to him, he wanted to cry. Harry wouldn’t— _ couldn’t _ cry where the Dursleys would hear him. He wouldn’t give them the ammunition.

They didn’t give Harry any dinner that night, and he was glad he’d asked Malfoy to take care of his cat, Circe— he loved her very much, and he hadn’t wanted her to suffer with him. 

He drifted off to sleep thinking about what she might have been doing, up in Wiltshire— maybe she was chasing things around outdoors, or maybe Malfoy’s mother, the Duchess, was spoiling her silly. He hoped so.

Harry slept fitfully that night, tossing and turning on his thin cot— he’d gotten used to the wonderfully soft down mattresses at Hogwarts. It seemed that every luxury he’d afforded himself over the year was going to come back to him as a further punishment while he was in the muggle world.

He dreamed of Hogwarts, with its beautiful forests and rolling lawns— the way the sunlight streamed through the lake and into the windows of the Slytherin common room. Harry could smell the books in the Hogwarts library, and he could hear the din of several hundred students bustling through the hallways. There were Crabbe and Goyle, Malfoy’s other friends, at the Slytherin table in the Great Hall— the smell of bacon and eggs wafted towards him…

Harry turned to look at the high table and found himself unceremoniously dumped on the floor. He laid on the floor of his cupboard for a few minutes, slowly realizing that it had just been a dream— all except the smell of bacon and eggs. That was coming from the Dursleys’ kitchen, along with the sound of Dudley and his friends laughing and joking around at the table. Harry felt the hot burn of resentment in the bottom of his stomach and sat on the floor desperately trying not to cry— or to launch himself at the door like a wild animal, desperate to get out. That was a good analogy, he realized— he was like a wild animal that had been penned up too long, that had escaped, and been dragged back, hissing and biting, to his tiny enclosure.

_ ‘Dear Draco, _

_ I really am going crazy, I think. Any chance you could help?’ _

—

The days crawled by, the endless boredom of the cupboard only broken by spurts of anger and humiliation when Dudley would come by to rattle the door. Although his uncle did let Harry out to use the loo eventually, it was two days before they let him eat anything— a can of soup that his aunt had just dumped into a bowl, cold and lumpy. Harry sat on the floor and ate it slowly, even though it tasted awful— he was sure they wouldn’t feed him again for another few days.

And he was right— the Dursleys were nothing if not predictable. 

Harry had been locked in the cupboard before— the punishment never changed, just how long it lasted for. He couldn’t tell what time it was inside the cupboard, dark as it was, but he could hear the Dursleys as they went about their daily rituals— when he heard Dudley come thundering down the stairs for breakfast, Harry made a little tick on a piece of lined paper he’d found on the floor. He was sure he’d put it there on purpose— but he’d tried to forget life in the cupboard, convinced as he was that it was all behind him. He nearly laughed himself sick at that— what a fantastic_ joke _ Dumbledore had played on him. 

Harry wondered absently if Dumbledore (who was both the headmaster of Hogwarts and legally, Harry’s _ guardian _ in the wizarding world,) was using Harry’s seats in the Wizengamot to pass any new pro-muggle laws. That would be _ awfully funny _, he thought.

By the time he’d gotten to eight ticks, Harry no longer thought it was funny— he sat in the dark and sobbed silently, viciously determined that the muggles would never hear him. He tore at his hair, then rocked back and forth in the corner (such as it was.) Harry cried himself to sleep two nights in a row and woke up the next day so dehydrated he thought he would pass out. His mouth was bone dry, and when he was let out to use the bathroom, he didn’t have any reason _ to _ use the bathroom. Instead, he stood at the sink and drank greedily from the tap— his dry lips cracked and split, but he didn’t even _ care _, he was so thirsty.

When his uncle had locked him back up in the cupboard again, Harry had to wonder if the Dursleys really were trying to kill him— according to his piece of paper, Harry had been in the cupboard for nearly two weeks, and they’d only fed him three bowls of cold soup. All of the healthy weight he’d gained at Hogwarts was gone— if he ran a hand over his side, he could once again feel every one of his ribs. 

By day fourteen, Harry felt very, very tired, no matter how much he slept. He didn’t know if it was from hunger, or the terrible cot he was no longer used to, or if there just wasn’t enough air getting into the cupboard— but whatever it was, he wouldn't beg the Dursleys to be let out. He had, once, when he was six or seven— it had just set them off again, and his uncle had left him there for an extra three days, just to “teach him a lesson.” 

Mr Dursley let him out of the cupboard anyways, fifteen days after he’d locked Harry in.

“Get out,” he told him gruffly, that morning, while Harry stumbled out into the hallway. It had been at least twelve hours since they’d last let him out— he stood there blinking frantically until the white spots floating in front of him went away.

Mr Dursley corralled him into the kitchen, and left him there, under his aunt’s sharp watch.

“Finally up then, are you?” She sneered, as though Harry had slept late that morning. He gritted his teeth and hated all three of them so badly he felt like he might combust— or fall over. Petunia pushed him in front of the stove, then handed him her spatula.

“Don’t you dare let that burn,” she warned him, “or I’ll have you straight back in there.”

Harry quickly nodded. He didn’t think he’d survive another day locked in the cupboard— not that the Dursleys would care. 

Harry watched over the Dursleys’ eggs and bacon as carefully as he could, but every time he moved his head too quickly, the white spots came back. This, obviously, made it very difficult for him to see— he was relieved when his aunt shoved him out of the way.

“_ Yours _ is over there,” she said and pointed to the single piece of toast that hadn’t made its way onto a plate. This was Harry’s usual breakfast with the Dursleys— he wanted to be angry, but he wasn’t sure he _ could _ eat more than a piece of toast, even if they’d let him. 

He ate his toast over the sink, and didn’t watch the Dursleys eat their breakfast— he thought he might have hexed them if he did. Harry looked out at the flowerbeds instead— Petunia had always blamed him for the state of her garden, but the proof that he’d been the one keeping them alive was right in front of him. The begonias were covered in weeds, and her trim hedges weren’t _ quite _ so trim. Harry felt very smug about this until he realized that weeding and tending to the garden would probably the first thing she would have him do.

And it was— once the Dursleys were done with their breakfast, his aunt pushed him outside, armed with a trowel and some hedge clippers. It was hard work, kneeling in the dirt and pulling up the roots of weeds that had started growing nearly a year before. The sun beat down on the back of Harry’s neck, and his stomach _ ached _. He finished the hedges as fast as he possibly could, desperate to get back into the house and lay down.

But his aunt wouldn’t let him— unlike Harry, who was careful not to step in the dirt or to track it into the kitchen, Dudley stomped his way into the kitchen without a care, and left a long trail of muddy footprints. It was Harry’s job to get on his hands and knees to scrub the kitchen floor.

Dudley watched him do it with a nasty smirk and kept making him stop to re-do the tiles he’d already scrubbed. “_ You missed a spot, _” he kept saying, in a sing-song voice that made Harry want to throttle him. When he was halfway done, Dudley complained to his mother that he was hungry again, and gleefully sat at the kitchen counter eating an enormous bowl of ice cream while Harry worked himself half to death.

The doorbell rang, and Mrs Dursley left the kitchen to answer the door— _ if only Dudley weren’t here, _ Harry thought miserably, _ I could stop for a minute. _

Dudley seemed to know what he was thinking, because he grinned down at him, and popped his spoon back into his mouth.

“Hello?” That was his aunt, at the door. “I’m afraid we’re not interested in whatever you’re selling—”

“And _ I’m _ afraid I’m not selling anything.”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat— it _ couldn’t _ be, but he’d know the voice anywhere… He looked up, through the kitchen door, which was cracked open a little— and then it was _ open _, with Draco Malfoy’s father standing in the doorway.

“Your Grace?” Harry asked, wondering if he could have possibly lost his mind in the cupboard.

Lord Malfoy curled his upper lip— Harry shrank into himself, horribly ashamed of what he’d found Harry doing— but it wasn’t _ Harry _ Lucius Malfoy was sneering at. It was Dudley, perched right next to him.

Lord Malfoy rounded on Harry’s aunt. “_ What _ have you done to this boy?” He demanded. Lord Malfoy wasn’t like Vernon Dursley— he didn’t get red in the face or start shouting. He got quieter, each word _ icy _. 

He crossed the Dursleys’ kitchen in three long strides and pulled Harry to his feet.

“Go and get your things,” he told him. 

“I—I can’t, Your Grace,” Harry said, voice hoarse from disuse. “I don’t know where they’ve put them.”

The Duke of Wiltshire breathed out through his nose slowly, and then he did it again. Lord Malfoy looked like he wanted to strike Harry’s aunt— Harry realized with a start that he _ wanted _ him to.

“If I had my way,” said Lucius Malfoy, in the same low, frigid voice, “I would have you and your _ wretched _ little family in the _ ground _ already. One day.”

Harry’s aunt stood just behind the doorway, shaking with anger. Lord Malfoy hadn’t _ done _ anything to her, but _ Dudley _ was still in the kitchen. He had climbed down from his seat at the kitchen counter and was trying to sneak out to the living room. Lord Malfoy raised his silver-tipped cane and hit Dudley across the back. He went flying into the living room carpet with a shriek.

“_ Duddy! _” Petunia shrieked back. She made to follow him, but Lord Malfoy stopped her.

“Go and get his things.” He wasn’t asking. 

Harry’s aunt glared at him so hard Harry was sure he would’ve burst into flames if there was any magic in her at all— but she went. He heard her unlocking the padlock on the garage outside, and then a loud ‘thump,’ before she rushed back into the house.

“_ Here! _” She spat.

Lord Malfoy smiled— then he put the tip of his cane on the back of her neck. “Bow to your betters,” he told her.

This was the comeuppance Harry had wanted the Dursleys to get his whole life. _ If only Uncle Vernon were here too, _ he thought nastily. He wanted to feel guilty, but he couldn’t find it within himself.

Petunia bowed stiffly, then deeper, then deeper again, until Lord Malfoy’s cane had pushed her to her knees on the floor.

He cast a feather-light charm on Harry’s trunk and then stepped over Harry’s aunt without another word. Harry hurried after him, dizzyingly— _ sickeningly _— happy.

When they were outside, Lord Malfoy extended one of his long arms and bent it at the elbow. Harry nervously linked their arms together.

“Have you ever apparated, Mister Potter?” He asked.

Harry shook his head— there were the white spots again. 

Lord Malfoy curled his lip again.

Harry didn’t understand _ why _ until they moved— one minute, they were standing on the curb outside of the Dursleys’ house, the next they were hurtling through space. It was like being pulled apart by a taffy machine— Harry felt stretched out, as though his arms and legs would start popping off. Then it stopped, and Harry fell through the other side. This was nothing like a portkey— when they landed, Harry was immediately, violently sick all over the beautiful stone walkway.

“I’m— I’m so sorry, Your Grace,” he whispered, when his stomach was empty of what little it had had in it.

Lord Malfoy spelt away the vomit and helped Harry back onto his feet for the second time that morning. 

“You _ have _ been hurt, haven’t you.” It wasn’t a question.


	2. Wiltshire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wasn’t just that Draco was hugging him— it was also because Harry couldn’t remember anyone hugging him, ever. Certainly not the Dursleys, and he’d never had any friends before Malfoy, so… So it might have been the first hug he’d gotten since his parents died. His first hug in a decade.

CHAPTER TWO: WILTSHIRE

  
  


H arry had seen a mansion once— he’d been scrubbing the tile floor in the Dursleys’ kitchen. His aunt had been watching a program on the Dursleys’ enormous television set, where they went out into the country and admired the old manor houses— he’d looked up from the floor for a minute to fix his glasses. Petunia hadn’t noticed, so he peeked around the archway into the living room. They were  _ sad _ , in a strange way. The white stone had cost so much to stack, so many years to build, and yet the giant blocks had turned grey and weathered with the years. They were relics.

Malfoy Manor was no relic— it was  _ alive _ in its’ beauty. In the summer sun, the white marble shimmered and shone like a mirage. The cobblestones, tan and neatly polished, turned to gold in the sunlight, covered on all sides with emerald green— the lawns of the estate, as they rippled like verdant waves in the summer breeze. 

The cobblestones Harry had been sick on were shiny with a polish of some sort, and they glimmered in the afternoon sunlight. The pathway they formed led them through the front gates of the estate, wrought-iron and twice as tall as Lord Malfoy, who already towered over other people. Climbing ivy wound its’ way around the bars of the gates— the tiny leaves looked like something out of a fairy garden. They didn’t creak or squeal when they opened— they pulled away smoothly, the mark of an expensive enchantment. 

Beyond the gate was a rolling green lawn that expanded in every direction— only interrupted by the hedges that lined the walkway. Large white birds wandered across the lawns, their tail feathers trailing behind them like a veil. One of the birds stretched his tail out, and Harry realized with a start that the Malfoys owned a flock of _white_ _peacocks_. 

At the end of the path was a rotary with an enormous marble fountain— this was where the Malfoys’ many guests arrived. Overlooking the rotary was Malfoy Manor— up close, it was even more intimidating. It was made entirely of marble blocks, stacked so high Harry could barely see the windows on the second story by the time they made it to the fountain. There were hundreds of windows, all of them taller than a fully grown wizard, and inlaid with stonework that reminded Harry of the carvings set into the walls of Hogwarts. He felt distinctly out of place and out of breath as he followed Lord Malfoy up the front steps.

Lord Malfoy rapped on the door with the head of his cane and waited impatiently for it to open. There was a quiet ‘pop!’ on the other side, and the door swung open with a gust of cold air. They stepped inside, and Harry tried not to stare. 

Draco bragged all the time about the things that his father bought him— but being surrounded by other purebloods, there was no need to brag about his house— they’d seen it. But Harry didn’t think he could have imagined Malfoy Manor if he’d had a hundred years. It was the same white marble as the outside, but it had been carved and set with gold, veins of it, that ran from the intense geometric designs on the ceilings to the delicate, twisting vines of the archways. The open curtains let in the sunlight, which glinted off of a crystal chandelier the size of a small  _ elephant _ , and scattered fractal patterns of light across the floor. 

“I’m afraid I’m due at the Ministry in a half-an-hour, Mr Potter. Ah, but there’s Draco— you’ll be in good company.” Lord Malfoy gave him a stiff smile. “Off you go.”

Harry nodded shakily. “Your Grace, I-”

Lord Malfoy gave a minuscule shake of his head. “We’ll never speak of this again,” he said and left the manor again. The door slid shut behind him, and Harry turned back around just in time to see Draco Malfoy coming down the enormous, curved staircase.

“Harry!” He smiled at him, big and genuine, and Harry could only watch, horrified, as his smile disappeared by the time he got to the bottom of the staircase. “You—” Malfoy trailed off. “You look  _ awful _ . What did the muggles  _ do _ to you?” He murmured, as though talking too loud might make Harry crumble away.

He didn’t know how to explain— how to tell his best friend that this was  _ familiar _ , the way he’d looked, the way he’d felt all his life, except for one dizzy, perfect year. “It’s—” Harry swallowed, and shook his head. He immediately wished he hadn’t— he’d been so distracted by the splendour of the manor that he’d forgotten everything else— he was immediately nauseous, and the white spots came back with a vengeance. “...They don’t feed me,” he finally settled on, when he could talk without being sick.

Malfoy didn’t say anything for a solid minute, and Harry dug his nails into the palm of his hand until it hurt, terrified as he was that  _ this  _ would be what made Malfoy realize that Harry wasn’t good enough to be his friend— but then Malfoy  _ hugged _ him, and it was only Draco’s arms around him that kept him standing, as shocked as he was. 

It wasn’t just that  _ Draco  _ was hugging him— it was also because Harry couldn’t remember  _ anyone  _ hugging him,  _ ever _ . Certainly not the Dursleys, and he’d never had any friends before Malfoy, so… So it might have been the first hug he’d gotten since his parents died. His first hug in a  _ decade _ . As awkward as he felt, and as terrified that he was that Draco was going to get sick of him, he hugged him right back and blinked back hot tears he didn’t think he could make any more of. 

“You're  _ my _ best friend— they’re never taking you back, I won’t  _ let  _ them,” Malfoy told him, as serious as he possibly knew how to be. 

Malfoy let go of him, and Harry felt terribly woozy— it couldn’t have been any later than a quarter past eleven, but it had already been the strangest, most wonderful day of his whole life— even better than the day he’d gotten his Hogwarts letter. He wobbled a little on his feet, but Malfoy caught him by the elbow.

“Do you— want to lay down?” Malfoy asked him, uncharacteristically unsure of himself. 

Harry shook his head— and was very nearly sick again. Malfoy pulled him up the stairs by his elbow. 

"Did you ever get any of my letters?" He asked, after a minute.

“No,” Harry swallowed thickly, “the muggles kept me… well. In a closet.” He looked down at his feet on the stairs. He’d gotten  _ used _ to the Dursleys stepping all over him, but it was— it was  _ humiliating _ . They’d nearly killed him and he hadn’t been able to do anything at all. Nevermind that he was only eleven still— he was a  _ wizard _ , and he hadn’t been able to protect himself at all. They’d taken away his wand and he’d been helpless. 

They reached the top of the stairs, and Malfoy gave him the strangest look Harry had ever seen— he didn’t think he’d be able to parse it if he had a  _ year _ , much less a minute. Then the look was gone, and Malfoy pulled him down the hallway, in charge as always. 

“No one’s here this time of the summer, but mother’s made it up as best she could.” Malfoy sniffed— this was Harry’s best friend, haughty and embarrassed over things no normal person would care about. But he felt strangely sad to go back to normal— but that was stupid. Draco was a member of the nobility— and wizards cared a lot more about what the higher-ups did than any muggle Harry had ever met— he couldn’t go around hugging people all day and having his friends cry on him. This was better— this was  _ normal _ .

The guest room that Lady Malfoy had ‘made up’ for Harry was the biggest bedroom he’d ever seen— it would have made the Queen green with envy, he thought, as he followed Draco inside. The walls were ‘papered’ in real silk, with lace trim to keep it in place, and crown moulding that could very well have been made out of ivory. On the wall was an ornate frame holding what looked like a portrait of a Malfoy ancestor— Harry couldn’t be certain, because it was empty for the moment. The bed was trimmed in silk, too— it wasn’t quite gold, but it was a mesmerizing metallic colour that seemed shimmer in front of his eyes. He supposed that could be from the dizziness— but given the rest of the manor, Harry didn’t think so. 

He gingerly took a seat on the bed, and found that it was just as extravagant as it looked— he’d never imagined a mattress could be so  _ soft _ . There had been tacky advertisements on the Dursleys’ television all the time, that this bed or the other was like “sleeping on a cloud!” But Harry couldn’t imagine them ever making a mattress  _ that _ perfect. 

Malfoy flopped himself on the other side of the bed, and even when Harry settled back against the mountain of pillows, they were far enough apart that two more second years could have fit in between them. Seeing his house explained a lot about Draco— all of the strange tics he had, and the things he said— it was hard to imagine how anyone could be entirely  _ normal _ growing up in what was really a castle. Maybe, he thought, the two of them balanced each other out— Draco had had never really cared about anything because he’d had everything, and Harry had never really cared about anything because there hadn’t been anything to care about— so perhaps they’d meet in the middle somewhere, and be alright.

—

Harry didn’t remember falling asleep— one minute he was sitting there thinking about how he and his best friend balanced each other out, and the next he was alone in the dark. He was still in Malfoy Manor— it couldn’t have been a dream, because his cot hurt to lay on, and there weren’t any blankets. Laying in the Malfoy’s guest room (or one of them, he was sure they had five— or _twenty— _to go around) Harry was warm and comfortable in a way he never had been before, even at Hogwarts. Someone had tucked him into bed, nevermind that he was still wearing Dudley Dursley’s dirty hand-me-downs, and pulled off his trainers as well. No one had ever done _that_ for him either, and when the tears came back, he didn’t stop them. He wasn’t even _sad_, he thought, as he burrowed back into the blankets. He was happy, so happy it didn’t even seem real, but he couldn’t understand why _Draco_ _Malfoy_, who had more money than anyone else in England, wizard or muggle, had decided that he was worth all this trouble. He wasn’t important, or special— he just _was_. He was just plain little half-blood Harry, with his blood traitor parents and his bank account that _might_ have bought the room he was sleeping in— but Draco thought he was brilliant and funny and he knew things no one else did about the way the world worked. He’d _cried_ the year before when he was afraid _Harry_ would get sick of _him_.

‘They’re never taking you back,’ he’d said, ‘I won’t let them,’ and he’d  _ meant _ it. He’d gotten his father to go into the muggle world in his pristine Wizengamot robes, and Lucius Malfoy had put the Dursleys in their place the way Harry had always secretly  _ dreamed _ someone would. He’d made  _ Aunt Petunia _ get on the floor while Harry stood there, he’d hit  _ Dudley _ across the back while  _ Harry _ stood there smugly, and he couldn’t feel guilty about it even if he tried. He didn’t know  _ why _ Draco’s father had done it— maybe Draco had pestered him about it so many times he just did it to make him stop talking about it, or maybe he thought it would pay off when Harry was an adult, or maybe, just maybe (Harry scarcely dared to believe it,) Lord and Lady Malfoy actually  _ cared _ what happened to him, just because he was Draco’s friend. 

That made Harry cry even harder— the war had taken his parents and his grandparents and all the cousins and friends of his parents that might have taken care of him. They didn’t care if he suffered— they were too  _ blind _ to see what was happening, what was right. But the Malfoys were doing what was right, no matter why they were doing it. It made him wonder if muggleborns really couldn’t be good people— if maybe his mother had  _ corrupted _ his father somehow. Maybe muggleborns were only born to really, really terrible muggles and then they went off and ruined perfectly nice wizards. But that didn’t exactly make sense— if that was how it worked, Dudley Dursley would have been the prime example of a muggleborn. Maybe they were cursed— some adverse magic brought to life by hatred for wizards. Harry didn’t know— he wondered if anyone would ever figure it out, or if someday all the magic in wizards would die out, too diluted to pass on any longer. He shuddered— Dumbledore would gladly let it happen. 

Harry burrowed into his pillow a little further, only to realize it was soaking wet— and he was still sniffling. He wondered if he could find his way to the bathroom in the dark, or if he should just turn the pillow over and go back to sleep. He had no idea what time of night it was— he thought it was night, but he couldn’t tell properly, because the curtains were drawn tight over the windows. Harry slipped out of bed and padded over to where he remembered the windows being. He missed on his first try and had to move to the left, sliding his hands along the silk to find the curtains. When his fingers closed around pleated fabric, he pulled it back and peeked out the window. 

It was pitch dark outside— there was just a sliver of the moon peeking out from behind the clouds, and in the moonlight, he could see that there was an enormous garden behind the manor, larger than any he’d ever seen. There were trellises full of roses, and a full-grown maze of flowering hedges, sprawling as far back as the eye could see. Everything about Malfoy Manor was larger than life— _ magical _ . 

He slid the curtains open a little more so that the dim moonlight shone through. It was just enough light for him to see the room— and to see the door open. First, there was a long, pale hand that curled around it, and then came a shock of white-blond hair. Standing in the doorway was the Duchess of Wiltshire, Draco’s mother. Harry swallowed heavily—

“I hope I didn’t wake you, Your Grace,” he said, quiet as he dared to be. He’d met Lady Malfoy at King’s Cross Station— she’d been elegant and kind and everything Harry wished his mother had been. He was afraid she wouldn’t be so kind in the middle of the night.

But she slipped into his room with the quiet rustle of her sleeping robes and closed the door behind her gently. “I woke myself— I set a charm for when you got out of bed.” 

She smiled and waved her hand over the candelabra sitting on the dressing hutch. Warm light spilt into the room, and Harry had to blink away spots.

“Would you close the drapes, please?” She asked him. 

He closed them with a nod, and nervously shifted from one foot to the other.

“Draco was terribly worried about you— the stories he told me I shuddered to believe, but I see now that you spared him the worst of it.” She beckoned him closer. “You’re a very sweet boy, Harry.”

He shuffled closer, and when he was within arms’ reach, she put her hands on his shoulders and squeezed as gently as she possibly could— he could barely feel it. 

“It’s miraculous, don’t you think?”

Harry blinked. “I’m sorry, Your Grace, but what’s miraculous?”

She smiled at him, her perfectly white teeth shining in the light. “That such beautiful things can come from such terrible places.”

She clicked her tongue, as though she had just noticed what he was wearing, and opened the hutch.

“These are Draco’s, so they won’t fit as well as I’d hoped, but they’re better than…  _ these _ .” It wasn’t quite a sneer on Narcissa Malfoy’s face, but it was a close thing. Harry could see the resemblance between her and her son perfectly at that moment. “I think I’m going to burn them.”

Harry gave her a tiny nod, and she smiled again as she handed him a pair of Draco’s sleep robes. 

“Put these on, and I’ll fetch your potions.”

“My potions, Your Grace?” Harry asked.

“Narcissa, dear. You’ll be staying with us all summer— I can’t have you tiptoeing around us all the time.” She brushed a stray piece of hair away from his forehead. He felt it move back into place, and she tsk’ ed.

“I’m sorry, You— Narcissa. It just does… that.” He stuttered. Harry’s hair had been a point of contention all his life. The Dursleys had taken every opportunity to chop it off.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll show you how to make it perfectly manageable.” And with that, she gave him the slightest push towards another door, further into the room. 

He opened it one-handed and stepped into a bathroom about the same size as the one he shared with five other boys at Hogwarts. There was one enormous, claw-foot tub, which looked like it might swallow him up if he tried to take a bath in it, and a beautiful wood vanity that took up just 1as much space as his whole cupboard. There must have been a hundred separate cabinets, interlocking like a Victorian jig-saw puzzle. He washed his face and patted it dry with the softest towel he’d ever used, and changed into his borrowed robes. That, at least, was familiar enough— Harry had worn hand-me-downs all the way until he’d gone to Hogwarts. 

He folded up Dudley’s baggy old clothes and carried them back into the bedroom with him.

Lady Malfoy had settled herself onto the vanity stool and was busy pouring a potion into what looked to Harry like a miniature wine-goblet. 

“Oh dear,” she said, and stood up. She snapped her fingers. “Tippy!”

There was a ‘pop!’ and then there was an ugly little creature in front of them, with enormous eyes the shape of tennis balls, floppy, fleshy ears and a dress made out of a pillowcase. It was the first time Harry had ever seen a real house-elf, although he’d seen a drawing of one in a book, once. Tippy was almost uncomfortable to look at, like someone’s bad attempt at making a person.

“Yes, Mistress? What can Tippy be doing?” She asked. Her ears flapped as she talked.

Lady Malfoy took the old muggle clothes from him, and said very carefully, “Destroy these. They are not  _ for _ you. Just throw them in the furnace.”

Tippy took them very gingerly, like they might burn her, and nodded. “Yes, mistress. Tippy is a good elf, so Tippy will burn them all up!”

Lady Malfoy nodded once, and Tippy disappeared with another ‘pop!’

“Now, then,” she smiled at him, “I’m afraid this doesn’t taste very pleasant, but it will make you feel better.” She handed him the glass.

It looked vaguely like chalk dust that someone had put water in— but it wasn’t like Harry could say ‘no.’ So he drank it— although it tasted even worse than it looked. It was more like spoiled grape juice than chalk. 

When he was done, Lady Malfoy waved the last of it out of the glass and filled it up with something else.

“I’m afraid this one is  _ distasteful _ as well,” she said with a sigh. “But we’ve got to repair the damage now, while we still can.” She handed him the glass again.

Harry drank.

“You know,” she said, “I had a cousin who had to take these, and they’re just as terrible now as they were then.” Lady Malfoy sighed. 

Harry swallowed heavily. He wanted to ask what it was he was drinking, but he didn’t want Draco’s mother to be cross with him.

She took the glass back, and set it on the hutch. “You’ll only need the nutrient potions for a few days— it won’t be terrible, I promise.”

He felt heavy with relief— of  _ course _ Draco’s mother wouldn’t give him potions that would hurt him. 

“I think it’s time for us both to go back to bed, now.” She said and gently steered him back to the enormous bed in the middle of the room. 

Harry laid down on the bed, and Lady Malfoy pulled the blankets up over his shoulders. “Draco would never let me do this,” she said with a smile. “I know you’re only being polite.”

She crossed the room and extinguished the candelabra with a wave of her hand. “Goodnight,” she said and closed the door.

  
Harry laid there in the dark for what felt like a very long time, wondering how  _ he  _ had ended up there. He felt very lucky, indeed.


	3. A Good Guest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because none of the things in Harry’s trunk were over a year old. There were no baby blankets, no childhood toys, nothing to point to and say ‘This, here, is proof that someone loves me.’ 

CHAPTER THREE: A GOOD GUEST

W hen Harry woke up the second time, it was because a house-elf was gently tugging the drapes away from the window, letting in the early morning light. Harry sat up gingerly and reached for his glasses-- the little house elf turned away from the window and  _ jumped _ into the air when he realized that Harry was awake. 

“Ladrey is sorry sir! Ladrey is not supposed to be waking sir up for  _ hours _ …” He whimpered.

Harry felt distinctly uncomfortable-- he hadn’t  _ meant _ to wake up, he just wasn’t used to the sunlight. “It’s alright,” he told the house-elf, with a weak little smile. “I always get up early.”

But the house-elf kept shaking his head mournfully like he’d done something terrible. 

“Er, do you think you could bring me a glass of water?” Harry asked because he was thirsty, and it seemed like something the elf could do to make it up to him-- not, of course, that Harry  _ needed _ Ladrey to make it up to him.

But it seemed asking for something was the right idea-- Ladrey perked right up, his big eyes blinking excitedly. “Oh, of course, sir! Sir is the family’s special guest-- would sir like breakfast?”

Harry shook his head and was shocked to discover that the white spots had vanished overnight. “No thank you,” he said, and the house-elf looked up at him with something like shock.

“There is no need to be thanking Ladrey, sir! Ladrey is being a bad elf this morning-- Mistress will be disappointed,” he said, and his ears drooped down.

Harry didn’t know what to say to that at all-- everything he knew about house-elves came from a three-paragraph section in  _ Magical Creatures of Britain _ .

Ladrey vanished with a ‘pop!’ and reappeared a minute later with a glass of water on a beautiful little silver tray that he must have gotten from the kitchen— or whatever suite of rooms the Malfoys called ‘The Servants’ Quarters.’ He set both on the bedside table and then disappeared again, with a flash of sad eyes.

Harry sat there in the big guest bed and uncomfortably drank his glass of water-- he had no idea what to do with himself, now that he was awake and it was an  _ accident _ . He wondered if he should go and draw himself a bath until he realized that Lady Malfoy hadn’t taken the charm off of the bed-- if he got up he would wake her up again, and he didn’t think Lady Malfoy was accustomed to being woken up at both three and six in the morning on the same day. Harry gave himself a little moment to feel guilty before he scooted back underneath the blankets. He expected to lay there and think, to worry-- but Harry surprised himself, and found that unlike his miserable little cot in the cupboard under the stairs; or even his four-poster at Hogwarts, which he had always thought was perfectly comfortable, the guest bed (a bad name, even in his head,) pulled him under a wave of sleep he couldn’t escape.

It was a deep, dreamless sleep-- the best kind, as far as Harry was concerned. Dreams were dangerous-- unpredictable, and usually terribly sad or strange. It was much nicer to fall asleep one minute, and to wake up the next, just as quick and easy as breathing.

Harry woke up a third time to a gentle, yet bony hand settling itself on his shoulder. When he opened his eyes, he found himself looking into the big, blue eyes of Tippy the house elf. Harry startled, and she backed up a few paces. 

“Tippy is sorry, sir! Mistress told Tippy to wake sir at nine o’clock,” She said, very quickly, and ducked as though Harry might  _ throw _ something at her. She was used to waking Draco up, he realized. 

“It’s alright,” he told her and started to get out of bed. “Thank you for waking me up-- I’m sorry if I startled you.”

He stood up with a wince-- only to stand there blinking in the sunlight when he realized that getting up  _ hadn’t _ hurt. The ‘ _ twang’ _ of pain that always, always came after toiling away in the Dursleys’ garden was totally absent, and for the first time in days, Harry’s eyes weren’t dry. 

He felt  _ good--  _ almost as good as he had when he’d left Hogwarts-- although Harry knew that if he ran his hands down his sides, he would still feel the sharp press of his ribs in a way he certainly  _ hadn’t _ two weeks before.

“Mistress told Tippy to expect her in ten minutes,” Tippy told him primly, breaking him out of his thoughts, and disappeared.

Harry stretched, and padded away from the bed, into the enormous bathroom. The cold tile on the soles of his feet reminded him that he had no shoes-- and no idea where his trunk was. He wondered, with a sinking feeling, if the Dursleys had done something to his things after all, and if that was why he was wearing Draco’s spare robes. He used the loo and tried to think of a polite way to ask Lady Malfoy if he could wear his own clothes. 

He very carefully washed and dried his hands, making sure he didn’t splash water on the counter or the mirror. He had been too tired to worry about it in the early hours of the morning, but in the light of day Harry was well aware he had to be a good guest-- he had to be impressive, clever, supportive. He had to show the Malfoys he was good enough to be friends with their son. That he was  _ resilient  _ (and had a good vocabulary.) 

Harry went back into the bedroom and straightened up the blankets, then sat at the foot of the bed and waited for Lady Malfoy. 

She knocked three times and waited for him to open the door before she came in. Harry was struck by how polite the Duchess was-- Draco might have been his best friend, but Harry never would have accused him of being _ polite _ . 

“Good morning,” Lady Malfoy smiled. “I hope the rest of your sleep wasn’t disturbed?”

Harry wondered if she meant when he had woken her up, or when Ladrey had woken him up. He thought it was probably better not to ask, just in case it would get the little elf in trouble. “Yes, Y-Narcissa. Thank you.”

She looked at him for a long minute-- Harry wondered what she was looking for.

“You seem much better this morning,” she said, finally.

“I do feel much better,” he said. “I can’t thank you enough.”

She smiled at him, and then ‘ _ tssked _ .’ “You poor dear, I never asked you if you’d like to take a bath. After spending all that time around those dirty muggles... you must think me a terrible host.”

“Of course not, Your Grace,” he said. 

“You’re too kind,” she replied and snapped her fingers. “Tippy!”

Tippy re-appeared, balancing a silver tray with a goblet, three potion bottles and a silver spoon. “Yes, Mistress?”

Lady Malfoy gave the house-elf a small smile and a little nod before she took the silver tray from her and said, “Go and draw Mr Potter a bath, please. Use lavender salts and a little rose-hip oil.”

She waited for Tippy to disappear, and then gently steered Harry into the nearby armchair.

“I won’t keep you,” she promised him, “Draco’s been terribly impatient to see you again, but we must make sure you’re healthy.”

Harry nodded and sat in the armchair as still as he could be. There were so many things Harry  _ wasn’t _ , he had to be incredible at everything he was. 

Lady Malfoy repeated the little ritual with the goblet-- pour one in, hand it off to Harry, take it back, repeat-- although there was another potion this time. He didn’t dare ask why, or what it was.

_ ‘You feel better,’  _ he told himself,  _ ‘and you don’t have any room to make mistakes.’ _

After Lady Malfoy took the goblet back the third time, she settled everything back onto the tray the way it was and left it on the vanity.

“I’ll have one of the elves bring your trunk up for you,” she promised, “although we may have to replace some of your robes-- the muggles weren’t very kind to them.” Her lip curled, while Harry’s heart sank-- he’d been so afraid that the Dursleys would ruin all of his things just because they could.

Lady Malfoy, of course, noticed the way his face fell. “I’m afraid it’s difficult to keep robes at your age,” she said, “but change can be for the better.”

Harry swallowed hard and nodded. “Change can be for the better,” he parroted. Of course it could-- change had landed him in Malfoy Manor.

“I’m sure Tippy has drawn you that bath by now-- take as long as you like.” Lady Malfoy clasped him by the shoulders, very gently. “Breakfast will be served at eleven-- I hope you don’t mind waiting for Draco.”

“Of course not.” Harry smiled, although his cheek gave a strange ‘twitch,’ and he stopped before it made him look a little cracked in the head.

“I’ll let him show you to the dining room,” she said and left Harry to his bath.

  
  


\--

  
  


It was, unsurprisingly, the best bath of Harry’s entire life. It also struck him, again, how different he was from Draco. Even if his parents hadn’t died, they were-- middle-class nobility. He was pretty sure his father hadn’t had servants scenting and oiling his baths, or serving him potions on silver trays. 

It was so very  _ difficult _ to ignore how out of place Harry was, but he tried. He used all of the soaps on the tray Tippy left-- the tray on the specific table  _ for _ a bath tray, which Harry had had no idea even  _ existed _ \-- then the lotions and the hair oil. There was an enormous bath sheet, rather than a towel, and when he went back into the guest bedroom, his trunk was open at the foot of the bed, with a pair of his robes on top of the blankets. He took them back to the bathroom and got dressed, then folded his borrowed robes very neatly and left them on the bed. 

It couldn’t have been later than ten o’clock, and Draco was impossible to wake up, so Harry sat down on the floor in front of his trunk.

It was obvious, up close, that whoever had put his trunk away had banged it around, and had just left it wherever they tossed it. Probably Mr Dursley, then-- if Dudley had done it, he would’ve taken a pocket knife to the leather. There were a few scratches and more than a few scuff marks, but it otherwise looked alright. The contents of the trunk were another story entirely-- his books had been  _ ripped _ apart, the pages yanked out of the bindings by hand, and on most of the covers, the titles had been scratched out. His robes were all gone-- which meant that all of them needed to be repaired. Harry, fortunately, had run out of ink the day before the school term ended-- but his spare quills had all been snapped, or mangled. The pile of assignments from the year before-- the pile that Harry had taken so much time and care pressing and folding, the only reminder of a time when adults around him were  _ proud  _ of him-- had been pulled out of their hiding place in the document pouch on the lid of the trunk, and ripped into the world’s saddest  _ confetti,  _ before being stuffed back in.

Harry sat on the floor for what could have been five minutes or fifty, his eyes hot and itchy from unshed tears. He could have  _ killed _ them, he thought, and he was pretty sure he meant it. Everything Harry owned, in the whole world, everything he loved and cherished and wanted to keep, was in that trunk. And the  _ muggles _ had taken that from him too.

‘ _ Is this what you wanted?’ _ He thought, staring up at the ceiling. His dead parents didn’t answer.

Harry wondered, not for the first time, if his parents had even  _ wanted _ him. He knew, now, that people didn’t always have children because they wanted to-- he  _ knew _ what sex was, he wasn’t  _ stupid _ . He’d read about it— not  _ directly _ , or anything, just a scene in a mystery novel that had mostly confused him— but he knew what it was, and what it  _ did _ . 

You didn’t have to have a baby in the muggle world-- Harry had learned that the one and only time the Dursleys had kept  _ Dudley _ from having a friend. Michael, who lived down the street, was at one point Dudley’s favourite crony-- until Mrs Dursley had gone into town on a shopping trip, and seen Emily, Michael’s sixteen-year-old sister, going into ‘ _ The Clinic.’  _ And when Dudley had started throwing a temper tantrum, Mr Dursley had explained to him (in between avoiding Dudley’s swinging fists,) that ‘if you were stupid with a girl in secondary school, you would have a baby-- and if you didn’t keep it, you would go straight to hell.’ Not keeping a baby was called ‘an abortion.’ 

Harry had to wonder if, in the Wizarding World, it was called ‘dark magic.’

And he had to wonder if maybe his parents hadn’t had a choice-- if his parents, eighteen and  _ stupid _ , hadn’t just made a mistake, and gotten married because they had a baby on the way. 

It would explain a lot, he thought. They had been Gryffindors, his parents-- the type to act first and think second. His dad had probably thought it was the  _ chivalrous _ thing to do. And why wouldn’t a muggleborn want to move up in the world? Marrying a pureblood would have made Lily Evans  _ important _ . But that didn’t mean that Harry’s parents had wanted him-- or that they had even particularly cared what happened to him after they died.

Because none of the things in Harry’s trunk were over a year old. There were no baby blankets, no childhood toys, nothing to point to and say  _ ‘This, here, is proof that someone loves me.’  _

And it wasn’t like Harry hadn’t  _ known _ that-- the Dursleys had always made it perfectly clear that they didn’t see him as family. He was the family slave, on a good day, and the family punching bag on a bad one. But something about his trunk full of broken bits made Harry believe, for the first time, that his parents probably hadn’t loved him very much at all. 

He tried his best to find all of the loose pages, and then piled them on top of the empty book covers. He lost the battle against his tears somewhere between books five and nine and had to stop so that he wouldn’t get the pages wet-- he wondered if Lady Malfoy would fix his books if he asked her very nicely, or if she would throw the whole mess into the garbage and tell him to perk up. Even the thought of Malfoy’s mother taking his hand and telling him in her gentle voice, ‘ _ They weren’t worth salvaging, I’m afraid,’ _ made him burn hot with embarrassment.

Harry pulled himself off of the floor after that and went back into the bathroom. He rinsed his face with cold water, then he rinsed it again, and again and again-- until the red disappeared from around his eyes, and his fingers started to prune. 

_ ‘Stop feeling sorry for yourself,’  _ Harry told his reflection.  _ ‘You’re a Slytherin, not a Hufflepuff.’ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)
> 
> 12 year olds know so much shit joanne. joanne why did you write a series of children's books where the twelve year olds act like eight year olds and all go through puberty perfectly until like 15. what was up with that joanne. anyway see you next 12 hours bc i only write in huge blocks, post immediately for reviews and then disappear for 2 to 10 months.


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